Escape
by and she knew love
Summary: "I love you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. With Bones draped half-dead over his back and five gunmen standing between them and the exit, Booth promises he'll get her out alive.
1. Chapter 1

**So. Yeah, another Bones story. I've gotten back into Bones now. Thank you for all the lovely feedback on _Home Is Where the Heart Is. _All those reviews made my day, my week...possibly my month. **

**So I'm planning for this to be a two-shot, but you never know. I could just have the sudden urge to write more. Who knows? **

**This takes place early in season 6, after _Home Is Where the Heart Is,_ which means B&B are in an established relationship. I seem to have grown a sudden affinity for present tense. I just think it makes this story flow a little better. ****Hope you all enjoy! As always, please, please leave some feedback about anything, whether it's how you like the story or if I've gotten something wrong. Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: Bones is not mine. Probably never will be mine either. **

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He's terrified. He can't remember ever being so terrified. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and his breath comes in shaky gasps.

"Come on, Bones," he breathes, adjusting his grip on her so he can take most of her weight. She's staggering along now, only half-conscious, with her left arm slung across his shoulders. He can feel the sickening wetness soaking through her shirt and through his as well where her side touches his. He tries not to think about how much blood she's losing.

He takes a sharp left, and she lets out a cry that jerks him to a stop instantly. "God, Bones," he gasps, shooting a fearful look at her. "You okay? God, I'm sorry. I'll try to walk slower."

"No," she whimpers, one of her hands pressed to the wound in her side. "We need to get out of the building. No delays, Booth."

"We walk any faster, and you'll collapse!" he argues, shifting his hold on her again. He doesn't know what to do. Should he let her down so they can both catch their breaths and so he can take a look at that god-awful wound in her side? Or should they hurry on their way? The gunmen could be anywhere in the building now. He can't decide whether it's better to risk a gunfight with men armed with assault rifles or Bones bleeding out.

_Bones bleeding out._ Oh God. The mere idea of _anything _happening to Bones makes him tremble. That's enough to decide him.

"Come on, Bones," he pants, bringing her arm down from his shoulder. As gently as he can manage, he helps her sit down against the wall—well, he pretty much props her up against the wall by himself, since she seems to be losing the ability to control her body. That thought spurs him on, and he hurriedly kneels next to her.

"Bones, I'm gonna take a look at the wound, okay?" he asks her. Even now, he's still hesitant about tearing her shirt open. Of all things to be hesitant about. But he can't force his fingers to move, even though every logical fiber in his body screams at him to stop being such a conservative idiot and to just _help_ her already.

"Yeah, okay," she breathes, her eyes latching onto his. With that, he tears a hole in her shirt and buttons go flying. Any other time, the sight of her bare skin would have had him blushing so hard he'd pass out. But now, he doesn't have time for any of that. He bends over her side, his war-trained eyes examining the wound almost as well as her scientist ones can. He can't tell a single thing about if it's cut into the blah-blah muscle or sliced the something-or-other skin, but he _can_ tell that it's bad. Bad enough for him to be terrified out of his mind.

"You're gonna be okay," he whispers, hurriedly ripping the sleeve off of his dress shirt. "It's gonna be okay."

She doesn't look at him. "The bullet penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs," she says clinically. "It doesn't seem to have struck any major organs. I can't tell if there's…" She swallows, the first sign that she isn't as calm as she seems. "An exit wound. I can't tell if there's an exit wound."

He hates how she's talking about it as if she's already a body on a stone slab in the morgue. He hates the weakness he can hear so plainly in her voice. He hates that he's the cause of it all.

"I shouldn't have dragged you along," he growls, furious at himself, furious and terrified all at once. "Damn it, I should have known better."

"You couldn't have suspected that there were—" Her breath hisses out in an agonized gasp as he pressed the torn sleeve of his shirt against the wound.

"Sorry," he mutters. "You know I would give my right arm to take all this back." Hell, he'd give anything to save her this pain. And if she…if she maybe doesn't _make_ it…

She opens her mouth to argue with him, no doubt, but when he presses the cloth against the wound again, all she manages is "illogical" in a breathless gasp. He works feverishly over her, knowing the gunmen could be just a couple of hallways behind them, knowing that for every minute he takes trying to patch her up, it's another minute they spend in danger.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Sorry I can't do anything better than this." He gestures to the crude bandage he's fashioned over the wound.

"It's okay." Her voice is faint. "You're not a professional medical doctor. I wouldn't expect any better."

There she is with her usual unintended insult thrown in. It almost makes him smile, but when he looks up to see her eyes closed, a jolt of panic shoots through him.

"Bones?" he asks, trying to keep his voice from rising. "Hey, Bones, come on. Wake up."

"I'm not asleep," she mumbles, but she sure sounds like it. He knows he can't let her slip into unconsciousness. Not when she's hurt that bad.

"Open your eyes then," he says, shaking her shoulder. "Come on, Bones, we've got to move."

She drags her eyelids open, and he can tell that it takes her some effort, which isn't a good sign. They've got to get out of the building. He couldn't care less about the gunmen now; it's Bones he's worried about. If there isn't an ambulance waiting outside like he'd called and ordered, he'll be pissed. Beyond pissed. Downright raging.

With a grunt, he pulls her to her feet, trying to ignore the small whimper she makes when he moves too quickly. He feels tears choke his throat, tears of terror, and forces them back. _It won't do anyone any good if I break down,_ he thinks angrily. _Man up, Seeley. Get Bones out of here._

They hurry down the hallway and at the flight of stairs, Booth pauses by a window. In the field below, he can spot the flashing lights of police and ambulances. A small wave of relief rushes through him. If they get out of this building, Bones will be okay. There are dozens of people down there waiting to help. Bones will be okay.

He clings firm to this thought and half-drags her down the stairs to the next floor. Her fingers clutch weakly at his arm, and he tries not to think about how feeble they feel. She's Doctor Temperance Brennan, damn it. She should be strong and fierce and independent. Not leaning heavily on his shoulder with cold, frail fingers and blood running down her side like a goddamn river. The bandage doesn't look like it's helping at all. He wants to curse. He wants to rage and scream. He wants to take up his gun and go back for the bastards that did this to her. Instead, he just grits his teeth and forges on.

"Eleventh floor," he grumbles, helping Bones down the next flight of stairs. "Why the _hell_ was the suspect on the eleventh floor?"

"Because that's where his hospital room is. As a patient, he has no reason and no right to ask for a change in rooms," Bones replies matter-of-factly. Utterly matter-of-factly. He can't get over his amazement at the fact that even half-conscious and _bleeding out_, she can sound completely logical. Does _nothing_ shake her walls? Does _nothing _break her to pieces so he can see her un-walled, beautiful heart underneath?

They're on the ninth floor now. Damn it. The first two flights of stairs were tough enough; he doesn't think Bones can take another nine. She's biting her lip to keep in the cries when he moves her, but he can see it. He can see how much this is hurting her, and it makes him want to shoot someone. In the knee, preferably, so it'll hurt like hell.

"Why the hell are the damn elevators down?" he growls, wiping sweat from his brow. "They've _got_ to make this hard for us, don't they?"

"The gunmen cut the power. And I don't think anyone's intentionally making this hard for us," Bones mumbles. Her head lolls alarmingly on his shoulder now, and he prays, prays, prays she'll be okay.

"Bones." He gives her a little shake. "Bones, come on, stay with me, okay? We're gonna get out of here, I promise."

"I seem to be losing a lot of blood," she muses, her eyelids shuttering.

He looks down at her shirt and his, both soaked in blood. _No shit,_ he thinks, swallowing hard. Aloud, he whispers, "You're gonna be okay, Bones. I swear."

She nods drowsily against his shoulder. "Although I know I should stay awake, it's getting admittedly difficult to do so."

"Just keep talking," he tells her. Keep talking so she can stay awake and so his heart won't stop every time she falls silent.

"That would attract the gunmen," she says logically. "We should remain silent."

"Screw the gunmen," he pants, helping her slowly down the next flight of stairs. "I want—_need_—to hear your voice, Bones." He tries not to let her hear how desperate he is. He needs to be strong now, for her. That's all he can do for her now—well, that and getting her out alive. Which he intends to do, even if it kills him.

"What…should I say?"

His terror ratchets up another level at the way her voice is fading. "Anything," he says quickly. "Anything you want, Bones."

"I don't…know…I can't seem to focus…"

He doesn't want to hurt her—anything but that—but he can't resist shaking her a little. "Come on, Bones, just say something. Anything. For me."

There's a moment of silence in which his stomach drops, and he freezes. Is she…she can't be unconscious? Damn it, she _can't_ be unconscious! He won't let her go, never, so she can't go passing out on him!

He pulls her around quickly and props her up against the wall so he can look in her face. "Bones? Bones, you awake?"

She doesn't answer, and he's choked with sudden fear. What the hell's he supposed to do? They're still eight floors up. The gunmen could be hiding around the next turn in the hallway. Bones is…Bones is nonresponsive. And he can't stop shaking, damn it.

With trembling fingers, he reaches for her throat. There's a pulse, thank God, but it's weak, too weak. For a moment, pure, blinding panic swamps him, and he can't think. _Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

It isn't FBI training that saves him this time. It's the soldier in him, the one who faced off insurgents in Afghanistan without batting an eye. Booth the soldier shoves the overwhelming emotions of Booth the man back, shoves every distracting thought away. He can't afford any distraction, not now when everything is so critical. With a breath, he lets Booth the soldier take charge.

Like he's put on a pair of sunglasses, he sees everything in a new light. The hospital is the hostile base. Bones is the target. Getting Bones _out_ of the hostile base is the objective. And he is the soldier.

He takes a steadying breath before gathering Bones up in his arms. With some difficulty he manages to sling her over his back, her arms dangling loosely around his neck. It's harder to carry her because she isn't holding on, but he'll manage.

Eighth floor. They're on the eighth floor without the use of the elevators or fire escapes. The stairs are the only option left. Bones is in imminent danger because she was the one Leonard Teel talked to. Now that the gunmen have no doubt silenced the suspect—Leonard—on the eleventh floor, probably shot him to death in his hospital bed, they'll be coming after Bones to make sure the information never gets out. He's got to protect the information and Bones. Especially Bones.

He shakes away the thought. The soldier knows that both are important, but that the information is of greater value. The man in him screams _damn the info, damn everything, this is _Bones_!_ He shuts the man away with difficulty and focuses on getting down the stairs.

He's halfway down the flight of stairs to the sixth floor when he hears it: the thundering of footsteps on the landing above them. _Damn it._ He's breathing hard, Bones is unconscious, and he's got one gun against five.

_You've faced worse odds,_ he thinks to himself. _You're gonna get out of this._ A glance at Bones solidifies his resolve, and he flings open the door to the sixth floor. The hallway is empty and dark, and there's a room diagonally across the hall from the door to the stairwell. Perfect. Thankfully, the door is unlocked. He ducks inside and lays Bones down on a table, giving the bandage a perfunctory check. The wound's still pumping blood, and he swallows his panic. He needs to be calm, and the soldier makes sure he is. With a last look at her, he draws his gun.

The stairwell door bangs open. The first man through doesn't spot Booth, crouching in the doorway of the room, his gun drawn and aimed. Booth's bullet takes him through the throat, and the man staggers back, blood spraying. The men behind him give a cry of alarm and slam the door shut, ignoring their companion's dying gurgles. When they crack it open again, Booth fires off another shot, sending up a shower of sparks as the bullet ricochets against the metal door. It slams shut again and stays closed this time. The gunmen probably won't open the door for some time, afraid that Booth will pick them off as they come through. It's bought him time, precious, precious time. He has to move.

Ducking back into the room, he grabs Bones's arms to lever to onto his back again. His gaze flicks to her face, and he's shocked to find her staring back at him. And just like that, the soldier vanishes, and the emotions he's been holding back overwhelms him.

"Oh, Bones," he breathes, relief making his knees weak. "Thank God. Thank _God._"

"Booth." Her voice is still weak, but at least she's awake. "What's going on?"

"I'm getting us out of here," he replies, heaving her up. "Come on, get on my back."

She opens her mouth, and a crease appears between her eyes. "I can walk, Booth."

He stares at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Bones, you've been shot. You can hardly keep your eyes open. You've probably got more blood outside your body than in it. And you say you can _walk?"_

"That's inaccurate," she mumbles, her eyes momentarily catching his. "If I had more blood outside my body than in, I'd be dead. And perhaps I'm mistaken about walking, but…"

"Perhaps?" he snorts. "Come on, we don't have time. Get on my back."

Weakly, she obeys, clasping her hands together around his neck. When she's settled, he opens the door to the room cautiously, scanning the hallway. No one. The body of the man he shot lies alone in front of the door to the stairwell. Even so, he clenches his gun in his hand tightly, ready to take out any threat. Edgily, he starts off down the hallway, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder in fear that someone will sneak up on him. The soldier is back now, and he knows he's got to get out of the building within the next ten minutes. Bones has been steadily bleeding this whole time, and any longer and she'll be a goner. And there is no way in _hell_ he's letting that happen.

There's got to be another entrance to the stairwell on the floor. He knows he shouldn't risk getting trapped in an enclosed area like the stairwell with a bunch of angry gunmen, but there isn't another choice. It's get to the ground floor and out or die.

He wipes stinging sweat from his eyes and tries to think. If he can catch the gunmen unaware, he can take them out. He knows he's a good enough shot, and he knows they're inexperienced. It isn't his shooting skills he's worried about, it's Bones. He can't fight them and protect her at the same time. But he can't just leave her somewhere, go eliminate the threat, and come back. She won't last that long.

He'll just have to make getting her out the priority. Killing the gunmen can wait. He's just got to get Bones to the ambulances, and then he can go back inside and shoot up the bastards.

Taking a shaky breath, he finally finds an alternate entrance to the stairwell. Shifting Bones on his back, he closes his eyes, mutters a quick prayer, and yanks the door open.

He sticks his head through first, hand with the gun leading. Glancing quickly up and down the landings, he's relieved to find that it's empty. It's just him and Bones.

"Booth…" she moans quietly against his shoulder.

"Shh," he whispers. "I know it hurts, but we've got to be quiet, okay, Bones?"

Only silence answers him. He prays it's because she understands him, not because she's unconscious again. He doesn't have time to check. With one last look at the landing above them, he hurries down the stairs, gun leading the way.

Halfway to the third floor, his cell phone rings. It's cuts so piercingly through the silence that Booth swears and nearly fires off a shot. Every sense on alert, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and flips it open.

"Hello?"

"Booth? It's Cullen. Are you still in the hospital?"

"Yes, I'm still in the hospital," he growls angrily. "Where the hell's backup? What the hell am I doing in here alone?"

"Hey, stay calm. Where are you?"

He glances at the placard by the door. "Third floor and counting. Going down."

"Good. Tell us where the shooters are, and we'll—"

Completely business. Like his partner isn't ten minutes away from _dying._

"No," he says, suddenly furious. "I won't fucking tell you where the shooters are. Bones has been _shot_ and I gotta get her out of here. Now _you_ let whoever the hell's out there know that I need an ambulance standing by and doctors and medics and whoever the hell can help her. If Bones doesn't get out of this okay, damn it, I'll _kill_ someone and—and—"

His voice breaks. Tears choke him up, and he can't speak anymore. Jerking the phone roughly away from his ear, he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers to them. This is no time for tears. He's got to stay strong. For Bones.

"It's going to be okay, Booth," she whispers in his ear. "I'll be fine."

It's the first lie he's ever heard her tell. Even though he's not a doctor of any sort, he knows it's bad, too bad for her to be able to say that she'll be fine. So she's lying. For him.

Goddamn it, why is _she_ the one being strong for _him?_

Angrily, he pulls the phone up again and snaps, "I'm gonna get Bones out, okay? Just _help_ me."

His boss's voice is soft but firm. "Hold it together, Booth. I know…how much she means to you, okay? It's going to be okay. Just get out of there ASAP, and we'll take it from there."

He takes a shaky breath, knowing he's got no right to be screaming at his boss, knowing that the fear is screwing with his judgment. "Yeah, I know. Sorry for…yeah, I'll get back to you."

He snaps the phone shut and shoves it into his pocket. He uses the soldier the shove back his emotions again. When his eyes are dry, he grips his gun tightly and starts on the stairs. He's going along so intently that he almost misses the sound of a door opening on the landing he's just passed. Almost too late, he spins around and spots one of the shooters stepping out of the door, gun aiming directly for him and Bones.

He throws himself to the side just as a shower of bullets digs into the ground where he'd been standing. Unceremoniously, he dumps Bones to the ground and tightens his grip on his gun. The man is descending the stairs now, his gun leading. He spots Booth on the turn of the stairs and brings up his gun, but Booth is faster. He has years of experience on his side, not to mention the past year spent in Afghanistan. He brings his gun smoothly up, taking perfect aim, and fires. The muzzle spits forward a bullet that catches the shooter in his shoulder, throwing him back on the stairs. The assault rifle clatters to the ground, and Booth rushes forward.

Kicking the gun out of reach, he kneels and grabs the man roughly by the shirt. "Tell me where the others are. Come on, tell me!"

The man's eyes are wide and frightened, but he keeps his mouth stubbornly shut. Furious, Booth takes the muzzle of his gun and puts it to the man's head.

"I got you in the shoulder," he says very calmly, soldierly composed. "It's not fatal, not unless you bleed out, and that won't be for a while. But this—" He taps the man's forehead with the gun. "—this _would_ be fatal. Understand me?"

The man nods, eyes wide, and Booth continues, "So you're going to tell me what I want to know, understand? Or else I'm gonna make sure you don't leave this hospital alive. Now where are the others?"

"W—waiting on the lower floors for you," the man stammers, trembling. "I—I think they're on the ground floor. They just posted me on this floor to ambush you if I could. I'm sorry! Please—please, just don't shoot me. I don't want to die!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that _before_ you came in here and shot my partner," Booth snarls, pressing the gun into the man's forehead so hard it leaves an imprint. He wonders if this guy's the guy who shot Bones. He never got a clear look at the bastard, but does it matter? If he even had a _hand_ in Bones's injury, he's not getting away with it.

Booth's finger tightens on the trigger. He wants to pull it. This guy is responsible for killing the doctor upstairs, a couple of nurses, and the suspect, Leonard. He's responsible for shooting Bones. That alone makes him want to blow the guy's brains out all over the stairs. He wants to so badly he can almost see it in his mind's eye, the muzzle flashing, the blood…

But he doesn't. He's lived too long—worked for justice too long—to even consider revenge. Shooting the guy won't solve any problems. It won't make Bones better. If there's anything he's learned in all his years at the FBI, it's that the government's justice, though imperfect, is always better than a cold-blooded shot to the head.

So he pulls the gun back. The man looks supremely relieved for the half second before Booth hits him hard across the face with the butt of the gun, knocking him out. He'll be out for a while, at least long enough for Booth to get Bones the hell out of there. It's enough.

A quiet groan draws his attention back behind him. It's Bones, he realizes with a start, and wincing, he remembers how roughly he dropped her. Hurriedly, he drops to his knees beside her, ignoring how he's kneeling in her blood.

"Bones?" he asks, one hand behind her neck to raise her head. "Bones, you with me?"

She whimpers. "It hurts."

He sighs quietly and draws her up close to his chest. "I know, baby. It's okay. It's gonna be okay." He presses a kiss to the top of her head, his eyes closed, wishing to God that everything will be all right, that she'll be okay. He just wants to hold her forever, but he's suddenly all too aware of the blood he's kneeling in and where it's coming from. The warm wetness soaking through his pant knees jerks him back into awareness and reality.

"Okay," he says, tearing himself away from her, "I need you to stay awake for me, okay, Bones? We've got to go now."

She just nods, and he helps her get back on his back. Grabbing the assault rifle, he tucks his own gun into its holster and checks the ammo of the shooter's rifle. Almost a full magazine left. More than enough if he runs into the other shooters. With the automatic weapon, it's almost as if he's back in Afghanistan. He sets himself in that mindset and starts down the stairs for the umpteenth time.

There are three of the gunmen lefts, all on the ground floor or at least standing between him and the exit. He can't think of any way to avoid them, but at least he'll be ready for them. Just in case the backup can do something about it, he gives Cullen a curt update, but the snipers posted outside don't have a visual. The backup team isn't being sent in because one of the shooters is holding five hospital workers hostage on the ground floor, out of sight. It looks like Booth is on his own.

_Hostages?_ he wonders. _When the hell did that happen?_

"Are they coming?" Bones whispers weakly. "The FBI?"

He doesn't have the heart to tell her they're on their own. "Yeah, Bones, they're on their way. Just hang in there, okay?" He wishes he could hold her, but they have to move. After stumbling down another couple of flights of stairs, they make it, finally, to the door marked with a one. Ground floor. At last.

He takes a breath and reaches up to squeeze Bones's hand. "Hey, we're almost there. You still with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Booth," she murmurs back. Damn it, she sounds sleepy, like she's drifting off. He's afraid she's going somewhere he can't follow. He wishes he could hear anything in her voice—even pain—because then he'll know she's still alive, that she's still feeling.

He reaches for the door handle, wondering if the shooters are waiting just on the other side. Wondering if he'll be shot. Wondering if, maybe, this is one fight they won't get out of. The thought makes him hesitate.

"Hey, Bones?"

"Hmm?"

He swallows hard. "I love you."

She doesn't speak, but he feels her arms tighten around his neck. She's surprised, he can tell. After a moment, she nods against his shoulder.

"I know," she whispers. "I know, Booth."

It's the most he's going to get. It's always hard to get her to even accept an _I love you_, let alone reciprocate. For now, her whispers of _I know_ make him happier than an _I love you_ from anyone else. He always figured they'd get around to the _I love you's_ from her later. It's the first time he realizes they might not have the time he always took for granted.

Taking a breath, he cautiously pulls the door open. Instantly, a spray of bullets ricochet off the door, and he slams it shut again, cursing. They've got people guarding the door. Damn it. _Damn it._ There isn't another way onto the ground floor, is there? He doesn't know. Desperation swamps him, and even the soldier can't hold it back. What the hell's he supposed to do? He can't go out. He can't stay here. But he's got to do _something_ because the woman he loves is probably three minutes away from certain death. He can't stop the wave of terror at the thought of Bones bleeding out on his back.

"We know you're in there!"

He jerks, realizing someone—the shooter—on the other side of the door is calling to him.

"We know you're in there!" the voice repeats. "Just come out with your hands up!"

He snorts. "Like hell!"

"Well, then just give us Doctor Brennan, and we'll let you free!"

Hah! _Hah!_ If it wasn't for Bones draped half-dead over his back, he might have been tempted to laugh. As it is, he just shakes his head grimly and stands without answering them. Let them think he's considering it. Meanwhile, he's got to do something.

"Maybe…the second floor…" Bones suggests weakly.

He smiles. "Just what I was thinking." Shifting his grip on her to make sure she's as comfortable as she can be, he starts back up the stairs as fast as he can go. Legs burning from exhaustion, he throws open the second floor door and rushes down the hallway to the nearest window he can find.

Perfect. A perfect view of the police and ambulances gathering on the lawn below in front of the hospital. Finally, something's gone right.

He pulls out his phone. "Cullen? Yeah, it's Booth. I'm trapped on the second floor, in a southeast corner window. Can you see me?"

It takes a moment before Cullen answers. "Yeah, Booth, our snipers have an eye on you. What do you mean you're trapped?"

"Shooters are on the first floor," he explains. "They're watching the door to the stairwell. Can you get me some help here?"

A moment passes, and Booth hears Cullen faintly shouting questions. And then his boss's voice comes back through the phone. "You're in luck, Booth. We've got a fire truck here with a ladder. You need to break the window and clear out the glass as they're positioning the ladder. Can you do that?"

_Can he do that? _He's an FBI agent, for Christ's sake. He can do a little thing like breaking a window.

"Yeah," he says curtly, snapping the phone shut. Then, gently, he lays Bones down, making sure she's still conscious.

"We're almost out," he whispers, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "It's gonna be okay."

Then, taking his gun, he shoots the window out. It's the quickest way to break it, even if it's the loudest. The shooters will no doubt be drawn to the noise, but he can't avoid it. Using the butt of the gun, he sweeps away the remaining glass from the frame of the window and leans out. There's the fire truck, getting positioned under the window ledge, the ladder already extending toward him. A fireman heads up their way. Booth doesn't think he's ever seen a more welcome sight.

He turns back. "Bones, come on. Stay with me, okay?" When she nods, he gathers her up in his arms and carries her to the windowsill to wait as the fireman makes his way up the ladder. When the man finally reaches them, Booth gives him a relieved smile.

"Finally," he breathes, smiling. It's like a weight has finally been lifted off his shoulders. He's done the best for her that he can. Now he just has to wait and pray.

Carefully, he hands Bones off to the fireman. She clings momentarily to his shirt, unwilling to let go, but he pries her off, murmuring a soft "I love you" in her ear. The fireman makes his painstaking way back down the ladder, and Booth leans heavily against the windowsill, breathing hard.

She's going to be okay. He chants it in his head, like repeating it will make it real. _She's going to be okay._

He clenches his fist and prays.


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys make me feel so loved as a writer. Lots of good words from all of you on the last chapter. So glad you enjoyed it. **

**So...this looks like there's going to be at least another chapter. It kind of ran away with me. Hope you guys don't mind too much!**

**Disclaimer: Nothing of Bones is mine. Of course. **

* * *

Cullen is waiting at the foot of the fire truck when Booth makes it to the bottom of the ladder. Booth's exhausted, dirty, and wild-eyed. He rushes immediately toward his boss, wiping stinging sweat from his eyes.

"Where is she?" he demands. "Is she okay? Is she with a medic?"

Cullen sets a firm hand on Booth's shoulder. "Take a breath, Booth. She's in the ambulance. They're prepping to drive her to the hospital."

He turns and spots Bones lying on a gurney, an EMT working intently over her, tearing away what's left of her shirt. They've strapped an oxygen mask to her, and another EMT is hooking up an IV. She looks awful.

Booth hesitates for a moment before thrusting the assault rifle he's still holding into Cullen's surprised hands. "I'm going with her." There's no way he's letting her get through this on her own. He told her he'd never leave her, and there's no way in hell he's breaking that promise now, not now when she needs him most. He wants to hold her hand as the ambulance jolts along, to whisper quiet reassurances in her ear, to tell her to keep fighting. He wants to hold her hand all the way up to the doors of the surgery room, just to make sure she gets there still breathing—and to make sure he isn't miles away hyperventilating, wondering what the hell's happening to her and if she's okay.

He hasn't even taken three full steps before Cullen's hand clamps around his arm, yanking him to a stop. For a man who sits behind a desk all day and probably hasn't seen a day of field duty in the past three years, Cullen's surprisingly strong. Booth turns in irritation, curbing his automatic instinct to wrench his boss's hand off. Instead, he just snaps tiredly, "What?"

"You can't go with her," Cullen says firmly. "I need you here, Booth. There's still a situation going on. According to you, there're still three gunmen left in there, along with five hostages." Catching the dark resolve in Booth's eyes, he gives his agent a shake. "I _need_ you, Booth. You hear me?"

Booth clenches his jaw, hard enough to make it pop. He's been through hell in the past hour, and his boss wants him to leave his partner's side and just _watch_ as she gets loaded up to go to the hospital? His boss wants him to just go on with his job like nothing's happened, like it might not be the last time he ever sees Bones again? He rakes an angry, bloody hand through his hair and hates the look Cullen's giving him, the look that says 'Get your ass in gear, Booth. Don't make me have to make it an order.' He also hates that pulsing sense of duty in him, the one that knows that he needs to stay and make sure the hostages get out safely because he's the one with enough information. He hates how, no matter how much the woman he loves needs him right now, no matter if he's seen the last of her blue eyes, he can't tear himself away from five innocent hospital workers trapped inside with three angry gunmen.

He jerks his arm away from Cullen roughly, pissed beyond pissed that he can't let go of that hero inside him, wishing fervently that he could just throw away all sense of duty and just get in that ambulance with Bones, the consequences be damned. But he can't. He doesn't have it in him.

He sighs and wrestles his thousand emotions under control with some difficulty. When he looks at his boss again, he's calmer. He's an FBI agent, not a man half a second away from tearing his hair out in raw fear and desperation. He shuts Bones away behind rough walls because he has a job to do.

"Good man," Cullen says quietly, clapping Booth on the shoulder. "Now brief me on the situation inside."

Booth shakes his head. "I don't know much. Three gunmen are left on the ground floor. I didn't get an eye on the hostages. They were after Bones."

Cullen nods slowly. "Give us a general layout of the ground floor. And I know you're tired, but you're leading the entry team?"

Booth stares at him. "Me? Shouldn't the entry team already have a leader? Let him take point." He doesn't want to go back in there, as much as he wanted to earlier. Now, all he wants to do is dump all the information he knows on Cullen and hightail it to the hospital.

"You've been inside," Cullen replies. "You have an advantage, and we can use all the advantages we can get. I want you in there."

Which is pretty much the same as 'You're going in, Booth, and it's an order.' He knows better than to argue this time. Instead, he just checks his gun to make sure he's got a full clip and stalks over to the entry team. One of the agents hands him a Kevlar vest, and he straps it on, feeling, as always, a world safer with it on. It's how he imagines medieval knights felt when they donned their shining armor and pulled out their gigantic swords.

"Agent Booth?"

Finishing strapping on his vest, he looks up to see a tall, bearded man approaching him. The agent's also wearing a Kevlar vest, and he's got a game face on. Booth nods, and the man extends his hand. "Agent Tyler, leader of the SWAT team. Cullen's got you leading us in?"

Booth nods. "Let's get this done." He hunkers down and draw a diagram in the dirt, roughly outlining the ground floor of the hospital as he remembers it. He explains where he thinks the shooters are positioned and shows them where he thinks is the best entry point. Tyler nods thoughtfully before rising to his feet.

"We'll go with the entry point on the southeast entrance," the team leader announces. "Remember, there are three hostiles and five hostages. Orders are to fire only if fired upon or if one of the hostages is in imminent danger. Otherwise, we're to take these bastards alive. Understand?"

The team murmurs a quick 'yes,' and check their weapons quickly. Tyler eyes Booth's pistol and asks, "You want a bigger gun? We've got an M4 Carbine in the SWAT van."

Booth shakes his head. He's more comfortable with his own weapon, and since there're only three hostiles, he doesn't think he'll need the extra firepower. Tyler shrugs and shoulders his own submachine gun.

"Earpiece," Tyler says, handing Booth the device. "Cullen wants real-time updates. Also, we need to keep in touch if we don't find the shooters on the ground floor and need to split up."

Nodding, Booth slips the earpiece in and taps it to make sure it's functioning. With that done, the team moves to the selected entry point, a couple of glass doors that open into an empty hallway.

"Snipers don't have an eye on any of them," Cullen's voice crackles in his ear. "The shooters are gonna be in the interior of the hospital then. Good luck, team."

It's time. Booth pushes the hospital doors open silently and heads inside.

* * *

She fades in and out of consciousness. One moment she's clinging to Booth's hand and the next, she's lying on a gurney in a racing ambulance, an oxygen mask strapped over her face and two paramedics working feverishly over her. They must have given her some morphine for the pain because she just feels numb now. Numb and lost.

She tries to catch the eye of the paramedic working directly above her, but he's working too intently, bloody gauze in his hands. She can feel him swabbing the gunshot wound, but it doesn't hurt. She wonders how much blood she's lost. Remembering how Booth's dress shirt was positively soaked through with red, she knows it's a lot, too much. Maybe too much to even hope for survival.

She's a scientist. It's a fact that she might not survive due to extreme blood loss, a simple, scientific fact. But it doesn't stop panic from flooding through her, running rampant through every nerve of her body. Her heart must be pounding double-time against her ribs. She can't stop the terror that shortens her breath until she can hardly suck in a breath. She might die. She might _die_. It isn't so much the fact of death that terrifies her; it's what she hasn't done yet. There are so many things she wants to do, so many things she's been looking forward to. She simply isn't ready to die yet.

"Ms. Brennan? Ms. Brennan?"

It takes her scrambled, dazed mind a moment to realize that one of the paramedics is bending over her, trying to gauge if she's conscious or simply out of it. Weakly, she opens her mouth, but she can't draw enough breath to speak.

"Don't talk," the paramedic advises. "You have a gunshot wound to your left side. You've lost a lot of blood. We're taking you to the nearest hospital. Nod if you can understand me."

She nods feebly, an action that's much, much harder than it should be. She wants to ask for…for…

For Booth. Where is Booth? He's in the ambulance with her, isn't he? She wants him to hold her hand. She wants to hear his rough voice in her ear, telling her all sorts of logical impossibilities, telling her in that dead-certain tone of his that she's going to make it. She wants to hear his faith.

Weakly, she tries to lift her head and search the ambulance for her partner. Her eyes find the two paramedics and…and…

And no Booth. She knows she's mistaken. She knows he's here. He wouldn't leave her, not when she's like this. She knows exactly how protective Booth is and to what lengths he'll go to make sure she's safe. He brought her out of that building alive; he wouldn't leave her to make the rest of the trip to the hospital alone. It isn't in his nature to see things only partway through.

Strangely, illogically, she's reassured by the thought. Perhaps the paramedics would not allow him to join them in the back of the ambulance. Perhaps he's in his black SUV now, police sirens blaring, following so closely on the back of the ambulance he's nearly rear-ending it. Almost, almost, she thinks she hears the high warble of a police siren over the ambulance's own sirens.

She passes out again.

When she wakes up, they're lifting the gurney from the back of the ambulance and racing her into the hospital. A team of doctors await her anxiously, and hospital staff take over for the paramedics. Someone shouts, "Take her to surgery, OR 2!"

A nurse looms over her unfocused eyes, her voice rising over the rest. "Is there someone you want us to call, Ms. Brennan? Family, relatives, friends?"

She swallows hard and manages to gasp in a breath. The nurse lifts the oxygen mask off her face long enough for her to whisper, "Booth. Where's Booth?"

The nurse's face contorts in confusion. "Booth? Your husband?"

She shakes her head weakly, which makes her vision spin until she wants to throw up. "No…Agent Booth, my…my partner."

The nurse looks helplessly at one of the nearby doctors, who explains, "She's with the FBI. The Deputy Director called earlier, said she's a priority case. She was at the Harrison Memorial Hospital shooting earlier."

"At Harrison Memorial?" the nurse repeats, her eyes widening. Turning back to Brennan, she asks, "You want me to call your partner then? Agent Booth?"

No, she doesn't want the nurse to call Booth. She wants to know where Booth _is._ Surely he's here. Maybe in the waiting room. It's likely that, with his reckless driving, he arrived at the hospital even ahead of the ambulance. She wants to ask if she can see him before they get to surgery. Illogically, inexplicably, she needs his calm, low reassurances, even though she knows perfectly well that mere words can't help her now. But Booth's words have power. She doesn't know how, and she's pretty sure she'll never understand, but it's a fact, like it's a fact that there are two hundred six bones in the human body. All she wants now is for him to whisper roughly in her ear, "You're gonna be fine, Bones. You're gonna be fine." Even if it's a lie.

It's the first time in her life, she realizes, that she wants the lie over the truth, and it's because the truth scares her more than she'll ever admit. She's brushed close to death before, with the Gravedigger, and though she'll assert to the end of her days that she's not afraid of anything, that fear is a mere response to external stimuli, death is something she is very much afraid of. She never, ever wants to look death in the face again—metaphorically, of course.

"Ms. Brennan?"

It's the nurse again. She adds something, her voice sounding strangely garbled, and Brennan makes out that they're nearing surgery. Last chance.

"Where's Booth?" she tries again. "Tell him I want to speak to him. Have him come here."

The nurse gives her a strange look. "That won't be possible just yet, Ms. Brennan."

Her brow furrows in confusion. Not possible? She might not be aware of the exact layout of the hospital, but she's fairly certain that it would take under five minutes for Booth to reach them from the waiting room. Fewer than five minutes, probably, since Booth will be sprinting.

The nurse catches her confusion and explains, almost apologetically, "Agent Booth isn't here, Ms. Brennan. The paramedics say he was still talking to the Deputy Director of the FBI when they pulled away."

He…isn't here?

Booth isn't here?

She can't quite follow the thought. She wonders if she's heard wrong. The morphine must be having an adverse effect on her ability to concentrate, or perhaps her hearing.

The nurse pursues her relentlessly. "Is there anyone else you want me to call? Another friend, maybe?"

No, there isn't. It's Booth she wants. Booth, and Angela too. But she's suddenly too tired to speak anymore. She just closes her eyes and hopes that when she wakes up, it'll be Booth's voice she hears.

* * *

"Hands up! Hands up!"

The SWAT team bursts into the room with practiced efficiency. It's been a long time since Booth's moved with a team like this one, so he just keeps to the front and the side to avoid getting in the way of the SWAT team's formation. He sweeps the room with his gun and lowers it after a long moment.

"No one's here," Tyler reports to Cullen, hand to his earpiece. "They must have gone up, left the ground level."

Damn. There's no telling where the three men could be now unless one of the snipers spots them through a window. Booth clenches his fist in frustration. He knows that the SWAT team will move on to clear the hospital floor by floor now, and it'll take a long time, too long. He wants nothing more than to get this whole episode over with so he can just get to the hospital already and find out how Bones is doing.

"Sir," he says through gritted teeth, pressing his earpiece, "permission to leave? The hostiles aren't on the ground floor. I've done my part; don't make me do SWAT's too." There's no reason why he should stay. He's already led the entrance team in, and now that a quick resolution isn't in sight, he should be able to leave. He isn't drilled in floor-by-floor searches. That's the SWAT team's specialty.

Cullen's sigh crackles through the connection. A moment later, his voice follows. "You're right, Booth. Go on and get out of there."

He's never heard more welcome words. Tyler turns and nods to him, and he offers a quiet 'good luck' before turning and practically sprinting back out the way they came. Holstering his gun, he brushes past Cullen and reaches his SUV half a second later. Yanking the door open, he shoves the keys in the ignition and slams his foot on the pedal.

On the way to the hospital, he ignores every single traffic regulation there is. He flicks on the siren and runs it all the way to the parking lot of the hospital, cutting it off only when he yanks the keys out of the ignition. His heart is in his throat as he sprints across the road to the hospital doors.

_Please let her be okay,_ he prays, pulse thundering in his ears. _Dear God, let her be okay._

He almost runs headlong into a doctor the instant he clears the doors. The man takes one look at his bloodied shirt and asks, "Where are you injured?"

He waves the man off impatiently. "I'm not hurt. I'm—" Damn it, he has to stop to catch his breath. He doesn't think he's breathed since he leaped into his SUV at Harrison Memorial. _Deep breaths, Seeley, one…two…one…two…_

After a moment, he swallows with some effort and bursts out, "I'm looking for Doctor Temperance Brennan. She was brought here maybe a half hour ago?"

The doctor points to the receptionist. "She'll know where—"

Booth blazes past him without a second look, storming up to the receptionist. "Doctor Temperance Brennan," he says, his tone clipped. He doesn't mean to sound frightening, but apparently he does because the receptionist cringes.

"Let me just look the name up," she says, eyeing his wild appearance. "Now is that Temperance as in _t-e-m-p—_"

"T-e-m-p-e-r-a-n-c-e," he snaps out in annoyance. God, is there another way to spell her name? He doesn't even have the sympathy to feel guilty when the receptionist jumps at the sharpness in his voice. He can't think of anything but Bones.

"Here," the receptionist says after a moment, her eyes glued to the computer screen like she's afraid of looking at him. "Temperance Brennan. She's still in surgery. Sir, if you'd like to wait in the waiting room we have upstairs—"

"Where is she?" he demands. "Where's surgery?"

The receptionist shakes her head, bewildered. "You can't go up there, sir—"

"The hell I can't," he snaps. He decides that this is a good time as any to abuse his privileges as a federal agent and yanks out his badge. "Federal agent. Tell me where surgery is."

Now the receptionist's eyes look like they're just about big enough to pop clear of their sockets. "Uh—," she stammers. "D—down your right and up the stairs. Once you're there, there are signs that'll show you the way."

He looks at her briefly and realizes just how much he's frightened her. She flinches when he so much as directs his eyes toward her, and she's slowly pushing back her chair like she's afraid he'll lunge across the desk at her. He feels a small flash of guilt and mutters a quick "Thanks" before he bolts down the hallway.

Up the stairs, she said? He takes them three at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs. He bursts into the floor above at a sprint, startling a group of nurses. Someone shouts at him to slow down, but he ignores the order. Little placards line the walls, and he finds the one that points to surgery. Double doors loom in front of him.

He slows. His hand is almost trembling as he pushes open the door. His heart is in his throat.

The hallway is quiet. No doctors, no nurses. He can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad one. He just wants to know how Bones is doing.

He ventures farther into the hallway and spots a row of chairs against the wall. Three people are slumped in them and a third is pacing the hall slowly. He recognizes them instantly, and it calms him immensely to see the Squint Squad arrayed out here, worried expressions on their faces. It means Bones is still alive.

"Booth!"

Angela's the first to spot him. She rises from one of the chairs and practically throws herself into his arms, tears in her eyes. He hugs her tightly, knowing that here is a person who's just as terrified as he is. Angela clings to him for another moment, sharing in his fear, both connected through mutual concern for a woman they love, before pulling back, her eyes red and puffy.

"Are you okay?" she breathes, looking down at him.

He realizes he hasn't stripped off the bulletproof vest. Underneath, his shirt is stained through with blood, so much blood that it looks like the shirt is red to begin with. And yet, none of it is his.

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. How's—how's Bones?"

Angela swallows. "She's still in surgery. No one's told us anything yet."

He looks over her shoulder to the rest of the Squint Squad. Hodgins stands and places a comforting hand on Angela's shoulder. Cam moves forward to touch Booth's arm comfortingly. She's probably the one who understands him most, and she knows it. He touches her hand gratefully, glad for the meager comfort her touch offers. Sweets looks at him and, for once, doesn't say a word. They all just know he's not okay. He won't be okay until Bones is.

"She'll be okay, though, right?" he asks, more to Cam than the others.

His old friend shakes her head helplessly. "I can't tell, Booth. They say she lost a lot of blood."

Booth glances down at his shirt, knowing that it is evidence enough of that. "They can do transfusions, though, right?" he asks, almost desperately. "It isn't that bad."

"Yes," Cam says quietly, "they can do transfusions."

Booth doesn't miss the way she doesn't say Bones will be okay. It makes his heart sink, but he still stubbornly holds firm to the thought that Bones will pull through. She always pulls through. She's a fighter, and he's damn proud of the fact that he's got such an amazing partner. He knows instinctively she'll be all right. Despite all his fears, despite the fact that his throat closes up at the thought of her not making it, he somehow doesn't believe deep down that there's even a possibility that she won't be okay.

Swallowing, he sits heavily, closing his eyes. When his muscles cry out in relief, he realizes for the first time just how exhausted he really is. His legs are burning from running, and his heart is pounding heavily, trying to keep him from getting light-headed. If he closes his eyes for too long, he'll probably pass right out.

Someone sits beside him. "Booth…do you want to talk about it?"

He tries not to growl. "No, Sweets, I don't want to talk about it."

The psychologist is persistent, as always. "It's good for victims of trauma to talk about their experiences. It helps take a weight off their shoulders and gives them a sense of sharing the burden."

This time he can't help the annoyance in his voice. "I'm not a _victim_, Sweets. And there isn't any burden to share. I'm fine."

"You're very _not_ fine, Booth," Sweets argues. "You won't even look at me. Your usual traits of an—an alpha male, as Doctor Brennan would say, are absent." When Booth glares at him, the psychologist amends, "Except your hostility, of course."

He isn't in the mood to hear Sweets' psychobabble. He's rarely in the mood even when he isn't half-crazed with fear for his partner's life. He doesn't have the energy to snap at Sweets, though, so he just closes his eyes and leans his head back on the wall.

A moment later, he feels Cam take the seat next to him. She reaches out and clasps one of his hands in hers. He's grateful for the contact, the human connection it provides, and lets her touch ground him to reality. Her touch says a thousand things she doesn't voice, and it sends a measure of calm through him. His breathing slows, gradually. He doesn't want to fall asleep, but he can't help drifting off. Drifting off into…into…

The doctor slams open the door, blood still on his surgical scrubs. He strips off his gloves, his face grim. The entire squad gets to its feet. Only Booth is too numb to move.

He knows that expression. He's seen it countless times in the eyes of victims he's worked with. It's the look of eyes that have seen death. All it takes is one look at the doctor's face, and he knows. He knows.

The doctor opens his mouth and begins to speak. Booth doesn't hear past the "I'm so sorry." There's something in there about complications during the surgery and extensive blood loss, but it goes right over his head. Angela's sobbing uncontrollably now, Hodgins trying in vain to comfort her. Sweets stares in shock, tears in his eyes. Cam hounds the poor doctor in disbelief, demanding to know what went wrong. Only Booth is perfectly still. Perfectly numb. He doesn't think he's even breathing. He only knows that he doesn't want to breathe. Not when Bones will never take another breath again.

Slowly, gradually, the Squint Squad's hysterical noise dies down. Hodgins, his arm around Angela, leads his wife toward the bathrooms. Sweets slumps down into the chair next to Booth, his expression still dazed. Cam demands to see Doctor Brennan, and the doctor slowly leads her into the operating room.

He stops thinking. He just does. He stands slowly, ignoring Sweets' stare, and makes his way down the hallway. Everything he sees seems so…empty. The bustling activity of the hospital outside the surgery ward makes him almost dizzy. He can't fathom how life can be so full when the woman who made up his world is gone. He almost expects the sun to fall out of the sky. But it doesn't. Of course not. _That's illogical,_ her voice says in his head. _Of course it is,_ he answers affably.

He continues on right out of the hospital. He's not entirely sure of what he's doing. He wonders what he's supposed to do now, now that his life seems to have lost all direction.

His phone rings, and he digs it out slowly. "Hello?"

"Booth? It's Cullen. How's Doctor Brennan?"

"Gone," he hears himself answer numbly. He doesn't believe it. Not really. But it's the facts. It just hasn't hit him yet.

He hears Cullen suck in a shocked breath. "She's gone? Booth, what happened?"

"Complications," he says calmly. Somewhere, somewhere where his emotions have been buried under thousand-foot walls, he's shocked that he can be so deadpan in the face of what's just happened. But most of him is just frozen.

"Complications? God, Booth, I'm so sorry. Where are you?"

"Hospital," he answers distantly. He looks up into the sky and wonders if Bones is up there, looking down at him right now. Wondering if she's just now figuring out that there _is _a God, and there _is_ a Heaven. He almost smiles at the thought of her arguing with Saint Peter about how there's no logical explanation as to how there are a set of Pearly Gates up there in the clouds.

"Booth…what're you going to do?"

His boss is concerned. Booth can't bring himself to care. He can suddenly feel, with startling clarity, the imprint of his gun at his hip. He lets himself wander down that road, wondering how it would feel to just end it all, right here in the parking lot of the hospital. He wonders if he'll make it in time to catch Bones arguing with Saint Peter.

"Nothing," he says eventually. "See you tomorrow."

He shuts the phone and touches his gun. It would be so easy, so ridiculously easy, to end it. Just a little pull of the finger.

He wants to see Bones's bright smile again. The thought's enough to decide him. He draws his gun and—

—jerks awake, a strangled cry breaking the silence of the hallway. Cam jumps beside him and instantly reaches for his shoulder.

"Shh, Seeley," she says, her voice anxious. "You okay? It was just a dream. It's okay."

Just a dream. A _dream._ The horror's still there. He still feels the terrible numbness. He can even feel his finger tightening around the trigger, preparing to—to—

He lets out a strangled sob and leans down, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. It was so real. Too real. He can't get the dream out of his mind. For a long moment, he has to fight to breathe.

And then, before he can even think about recovering from the nightmare, a doctor opens the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**The response to this story has been amazing! I'm overwhelmed by all your reviews. I've loved reading each and every one of them, so thank you very much for taking the time to leave some of your thoughts!**

**So sorry for the cliffhanger in the last chapter. Pretty much all of you were threatening me harm on one level or another. Sorry! It wasn't planned, I promise! As for when this story's going to end, I have no idea. Since I apparently suck at estimating story length, I'm just going to stop trying to guess now. The only definite thing is that there is definitely going to be another chapter at least. Thanks for bearing with me. **

**Disclaimer: See chapter one. Or two. Or both. **

* * *

Booth doesn't move. He doesn't dare look up, terrified that he'll see _that_ expression on the doctor's face, the same expression from his dream. He doesn't think he'll be able to take it if Bones isn't okay.

The Squint Squad stands quickly, all four of them stepping toward the doctor. Booth remains in his chair and keeps his eyes glued solidly to the opposite wall, his hands clenched together so tightly his knuckles pop. _God, let her be okay…let her be fine…let the doctor bring good news…_

Five seconds pass. Another five. He can't stand the silence. Why the hell isn't the doctor saying anything? It can't be that…that something's truly gone wrong? Panic chokes him, and despite himself, his eyes fly to the doctor's face. Using everything he's ever learned about reading people, he frantically searches the doctor's eyes, the set of his mouth, the clenching of his hands around the file he's holding. He looks for any sign of distress, any sign of sympathy that will tell him that Bones is gone. Throat constricted with fear, he just stares. The doctor looks…he looks…

Tired. Tired, hassled, but calm. Calmer than he should have been if his patient had just died on the table under him.

He's almost knocked out by relief. Bones is okay. She might not be healthy, and she might be a far cry from fully alive, but she's okay. She's still breathing. For him, it's enough.

"What happened, Doctor?" Angela demands impatiently, her arms crossed. "Is she okay?"

The doctor, who looked initially surprised to see them, sighs. "You shouldn't even be back here. You should be in the waiting room. Who let you in here?"

He holds out his arms to shepherd them out toward the entrance, and Booth loses all traces of patience. Rising, he pulls out his badge. "Listen, Doctor, this is FBI business. Tell me how my partner's doing." He throws in a menacing glare for the good doctor's benefit and leans forward, almost in the doctor's face.

The man's eyes widen. He stares at Booth's badge for a long moment before holding up his hands passively. "Of course. I don't want any trouble. Miss Brennan—"

"Doctor," all five of them correct automatically.

The doctor pauses. "I'm sorry?"

"_Doctor _Brennan," Angela puts in impatiently. "Keep going."

"All right." The doctor clears his throat. "_Doctor_ Brennan's condition has been stabilized for now. But—" He raises his voice to interrupt the Squint Squad's loud sighs of relief, holding his hands up. "_But_, she's not out of the woods yet. She's lost an almost fatal amount of blood, and the bullet, though it didn't hit any major organs, tore through a lot of tissue. She needs to be kept under strict observation for at least forty-eight hours."

"Where's she going to be?" Booth asks, crossing his arms.

"ICU upstairs," the doctor replies. "Unfortunately, no visitors are allowed there after visiting hours." At Booth's glare, he raises his hand helplessly. "Please try to understand. I don't make the rules here."

"Well, you aren't saying no to him," Angela remarks, raising an eyebrow at the doctor as she glances at Booth. "He's an FBI agent. You can do some rule-bending."

"I can't…"

He _can't? _Bones has been in surgery for almost two hours, Booth has been through hell every minute of it, the Squint Squad is hyperventilating together, and the doctor _can't?_

Booth strengthens his glower and draws himself up. He's tall enough to be able to stare down at the doctor, and he uses every alpha male trait he possesses to his advantage. "Let me rephrase that, Doctor," he growls, hoping the doctor can see just how close he is to snapping. "You _will_ do some rule-bending. And if you have a problem with that, take it up with the Deputy Director of the FBI. Otherwise, show me where the hell ICU is."

The doctor hesitates for a brief moment, his eyes darting between the surgery room he just left and the group confronting him. Eventually, his shoulders sag slightly and he wipes a weary hand over his face. "Take the elevators to the fourth floor," he says tiredly. "ICU will be on the left."

Cam offers him a smile, which doesn't seem to lift the surgeon's spirits much. "Thank you, Doctor."

As one, they head for the elevators without a backward glance at the poor doctor. They hurriedly enter one lift, and Sweets punches the button for the fourth floor. The elevator ride feels agonizingly long. Booth taps his fingers on his pant leg, willing the elevator to rise faster. It feels like they're riding on a snail. He has to bite his lip to keep back the growl of frustration and impatience.

He wonders how Bones is doing. She's probably still knocked out from the drugs they gave her in surgery. He wonders how long it'll take her to wake up. He doesn't think he'll be able to breathe easily until she opens those beautiful blue eyes of hers and starts spouting multi-syllabic words that make his head spin. Until he can see her himself, trace every beautiful line of her face with his eyes. Until the bloody raw wound on her ribs has become nothing more than a silver scar and distant memories.

At last, the elevator doors ding open quietly. Booth leads the way, practically jogging for the Intensive Care Unit. He brushes open the doors quickly and heads inside.

_Bones, Bones, Bones…_He doesn't spot her immediately so he snags the sleeve of a nurse hurrying by.

"Visiting hours are over," she says, sounding puzzled as she draws to a stop and spots their little group. "If you'd come back tomorrow, sir…"

He has to take a deep, deep breath to keep from snapping her head off. He's been stopped again and again in the past hours in this damn hospital, so many times that he's considering just strapping his badge to his chest in full-view. Barely keeping his temper under control, he yanks out his badge and practically shoves it in the nurse's face.

"Look, FBI," he says tightly. "Temperance Brennan. Tell me where she is." At the nurse's bewildered, blank look, he adds quickly, "Gunshot wound to the chest. Just got out of surgery."

The nurse's eyes flicker with recognition. "Right, the gunshot wound victim." She turns and points to their left. "She'll be in the last bed on the right here."

Angela thanks her, but Booth's already striding toward the beds. He glances briefly at the ones he passes, eyes finding patients practically drowning in bandages with oxygen masks strapped to their faces and heartbeat monitors pulsing slowly. He clenches his fist and prays that Bones looks better.

Finally, finally, he reaches the last bed. Ducking behind the curtain, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees her.

She looks awful. Her face is much paler than it usually is, and she looks almost like she's drowning in the bed. The covers have been drawn up to her chin so he can't see the bandages underneath, but he can imagine them. It makes him shudder to think that underneath all the gauze is a small, red bullet wound marring her perfect skin. But the heartbeat monitor beeps regularly, reminding him over and over that she hasn't given up.

He lets out his breath in a whoosh, unexpectedly overwhelmed. She's all right. She's okay. He'd been so terrified, so _terrified_ he'd lose her, but she's okay. She's going to be fine. Relief nearly buckles his knees from under him. He has to clench the bars at the end of her hospital bed to keep the tears in.

Hodgins and Sweets find some chairs and pull them up so they can all sit quietly next to Brennan's bed, on one side or the other. Booth takes the seat to Bones's left, close enough to see her chest rise slowly with each breath. Lifting the covers, he reaches for her hand and clasps it tightly, never wanting to let go again.

"Hey, sweetie," Angela whispers, brushing some of Bones's hair out of her face. "It's Angela. Cam, Hodgins, and Sweets are here too. I'm sure the one you want to see is Booth, though. He's here too."

Booth swallows hard, rubbing small circles onto Bones's hand with his thumb. "I'm here, Bones," he says softly.

They sit for a while longer in silence. Sometimes, Cam or Angela offer a few words or Hodgins and Angela talk in hushed tones. Booth doesn't pay much attention to any of them; he's too busy studying Bones's face intently, memorizing and rememorizing every line, every beautiful curve. He's too busy trying to forget how close he was to losing her.

Eventually, a nurse comes to them and inform them that it's well past visiting hours. Booth flashes his badge wearily, but the nurse insists that only one of them can stay, and that's bending the rules already. Hodgins, Angela, Cam, and Sweets all rise, collecting their jackets in silent agreement. They already know who's going to stay; there's no question about it. Booth sends them grateful looks as they file past him and out of ICU. Only Cam pauses at his side.

"You should get some rest, Seeley," she says seriously. "You look like hell. And maybe get cleaned up too."

"Cleaned up?" he repeats blankly.

She looks meaningfully down at him. "You're a mess, Seeley. Take a break. Doctor Brennan won't mind."

And then she's gone. For the first time in hours, he looks down at himself. The Kevlar vest is still strapped to his chest, so he gently lays Bones's hand down and rips the Velcro of the bulletproof vest off. He hadn't realized how hot it was, but he's sweating underneath. Dropping the vest, he swallows as he looks down at his blood-stained shirt. It's suddenly an awful reminder of everything that's happened in the past six hours, and he has to fight not to tear it off. He hasn't done anything to fix up his appearance since he left Harrison Memorial, and it shows. To his disgust, he finds that even his hands are still stained with blood.

Suddenly, he realizes how terribly, terribly dirty he is. This is _Bones's_ blood on his hands, literally. This is Bones's blood all over him. He is walking evidence of how close she came to death today. How close she could still _be._ Feeling a wave of sickening nausea, he rises unsteadily to his feet. Pausing only to press a kiss to Bones's forehead, he rushes toward the bathroom. A sign points him left, and he ducks inside, turning the faucet on high until the water is running scalding hot and steam blankets the mirrors. He doesn't care about the heat, just thrusts his hands under the cascade of water and scrubs. The water runs blood-red, and he swallows back the bile that burns his throat. He abuses the soap dispenser until it coughs out its last pump of soap and continues to scour his skin until his hands feel raw from the burning water and gallon of soap suds. Only when the water runs perfectly clear, perfectly _un-red_, does he jerk himself to a stop, breathing hard. Gripping the sink with both hands, he looks down into the dying bubbles of soap in the sink, just watching them gurgle down the drain—watching them and trying to breathe.

Eventually, he looks down at his shirt and feels a fresh wave of nausea at the sheer redness of it. He wants to rip it to pieces and burn it so he won't ever have to look at Bones's blood again. But he doesn't have anything else to wear, does he? He can't just go around half-naked, and he sure as hell won't be leaving Bones, not after what's happened. Not even to go for a clean shirt at his apartment. He sighs in frustration, trying to stifle the sudden disgust at having to wear the stained shirt until he can get a clean one.

Suddenly, after a moment, he remembers in relief that he still has an FBI shirt in the trunk of the SUV. Letting out a breath, he leaves the bathroom, takes the elevator down to the ground floor of the now-deserted hospital, and makes his way to the parking lot. Unlocking the car, he gropes around for a while before he finally finds the shirt stuffed inexplicably between the seats. It's wrinkled and old, but it's clean, mercifully clean. Not caring who's watching, he rips off the bloodied dress shirt and balls it up. He slips into the FBI shirt, the three yellow letters on the chest glittering in the light of the nearby lamplight, and feels instantly better. Calmer. More normal.

Grabbing the bloody shirt, he heads back inside. When he finds a trash can, he dumps his shirt in roughly, wishing he could shove away the past six hours just as easily as he shoved away that shirt. But he can't. The fact that he's going back to sit by an unconscious Bones's bedside is testament enough to that.

When he gets back to ICU, the wing is dark. The lights have been dimmed, even though a few nurses still move from bed to bed on their rounds. They give him strange glances, and one almost stops him, but the letters FBI in bold print on his shirt must warn them off. No one gives him any trouble, and he takes his place by Bones unimpeded.

There's no change in her, not that he'd expected any. The heartbeat monitor still beeps comfortingly along, almost like a lullaby. He takes her hand again and brushes hair out of her face, taking the moment to revel in how soft her skin is. She's so tough, but she's so beautiful too. He doesn't know what he's ever done to deserve her; he only know it must have been a hell of a lot.

"It helps, you know, to talk to them."

The voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he turns quickly. One of the nurses has made her way toward him, and she stands at the end of Bones's bed now, her expression sympathetic. She's older, her face well-worn and wrinkled, but there's a sparkle in her eyes, a knowing that calms Booth somewhat.

"What—" His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat in embarrassment. "What do you mean?" he asks, looking at her.

"Talking to them," the nurse replies, nodding to Bones. "It helps to talk to loved ones, even if they're unconscious. Sometimes, they can hear you, you know. Sometimes they listen."

He knows that. He's been tempted to talk to Bones already, but somehow he doesn't quite know what to say. 'I'm sorry?' He should probably start with that, since he feels irredeemably guilty for dragging Bones to that hospital in the first place. If she just hadn't been there, she would never have been shot. She wouldn't be lying here in the bed, unconscious. He wouldn't have gone through hell in half a day.

He sighs. "I know. I just…"

"Maybe you should get a drink or something," the nurse suggests kindly.

He swallows and realizes for the first time that his mouth is almost desert dry. He hasn't had a drink in hours. After a moment of hesitation, he squeezes Bones's hand gently and rises, asking, "Where can I get some water?"

The nurse smiles. "I'll walk you."

"That's okay, I can find it."

She shakes her head. "No, I've made my rounds already. I could use the walk."

With a shrug, he follows her down the hall out of ICU and into the darkened corridors of the hospital. It's almost eerily empty now, but every once in a while, a doctor or nurse hurries past them. Booth walks with the nurse until they arrive at a vending machine. He digs a few crumpled bills out of his pants and buys a soda, figuring he could use the sugar. After a moment, he rustles up another dollar and a half and buys the nurse a bottle of water.

She accepts it with surprised gratitude. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

He shrugs. "It's nothing." He figures he's given the hospital staff enough crap for one day; he's got to make it up one way or another.

"My name is Helen," the nurse says after taking a sip of her water. "You?"

"Seeley Booth," he answers, popping his soda open. "People just call me Booth, though."

"Booth," she repeats. "It's a nice name."

He nods. "Sure. So is Helen."

She smiles. "You're a polite one, aren't you?"

A ghostly smile crosses his face as he thinks of how he terrorized the receptionist and surgeon with his federal status. "Yeah, usually."

They sip their respective drinks for a long moment before Helen gestures to the hallway in front of them. "Do you want to walk for a little?"

He hesitates. On one hand, he doesn't want to leave Bones. What if she wakes up and he's not there for her? What if she wakes up alone? But he can see the reality, which is that it's unlikely that Bones will wake up any time soon. The doctors have her sedated, and she probably won't regain consciousness in at least a few more hours. With that in mind, he figures he can spare a few minutes for a walk.

When he nods, Helen smiles and leads him off down the hallway slowly. They just enjoy the silence together for a few long minutes. To either side are hospital rooms, and Booth can hear the quiet breathing and soft beeps of heartbeat monitors. The sounds of a hospital at rest are surprisingly calming. He finds himself moving a bit sleepily as they get farther into the hospital wing.

"So," Helen says after a while, "the woman back there. I hear she's your partner?"

Booth smiles. "Yeah. I'm with the FBI."

"That's obvious enough," Helen says wryly, glancing down at his shirt.

He catches her gaze and chuckles ruefully. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Is she a fellow agent then?"

Booth shakes his head. "No, she's a scientist. A forensic anthropologist. She helps us with unusual murder cases."

"How?" Helen asks, sounding genuinely interested.

Booth smiles fondly and a touch proudly, like he always does when talking about his partner. "She's amazing at what she does. She can look at a bunch of old bones and come up with clues that help us solve the case. She sees a hundred little things in a skeleton that I can never even guess at. She's the best in her field."

"She sounds like quite the person," Helen says. Then, smiling knowingly, she adds, "Am I right in guessing that it's more than a work partnership?"

He can't help the slight blush that spreads across his face. Even though he learned long ago how transparent he is in regards to Bones, it never fails to embarrass him how easily people see his feelings. Sheepishly, he admits, "Yeah, it's more. It's been more for a while."

"Have you told her?" Helen asks curiously. "About your feelings, I mean."

Booth nods. "A while back. She turned me down the first time because she thought she couldn't change, and then she got this invitation for a dig in Indonesia and—" He sighs, knowing that if he detailed even the past year to Helen, they would be here all night. Instead, he just says, "Well, it got pretty complicated. But we're together now."

Helen smiles. "That's good. It's always good to see good young people falling in love."

"Young?" he repeats in surprise. "You're not that old yourself."

"Oh, kid," she laughs, slapping his arm gently, "I'm sixty-five. Turning sixty-six this September."

He stops, looking at her in astonishment. "Sixty-five?"

She smiles proudly. "Well-preserved, aren't I? I don't look a day above fifty, do I?"

Booth shakes his head and grins too. "You look great." And she does. He hopes he looks half as good at her age.

They lapse into silence again. Booth's mind turns back to the day they had, drawn back to darker memories like a moth to flame. He remembers getting news about the suspect in the hospital. He remembers bounding into Bones's office with the files, asking if she wanted to come along. She hadn't this time. She had reports to finish, and the Egyptology Department was waiting for her to come down and identify some odd striations on their new skeleton. He'd dragged her out of the office though, practically manhandling her out of the Jeffersonian. He remembers pulling up to Harrison Memorial and cracking some stupid joke that she actually understood. He remembers letting her enter first and talk to the suspect—Leonard—while he stood outside and talked to the doctor to get Leonard's medical information. He remembers following the doctor into his office just for a few seconds and then hearing sounds that made his blood run cold—gunshots. He remembers racing back to Leonard's room, gun drawn, firing at the men with assault rifles, wondering wildly where Bones was, and then, finally, spotting her on the ground, blood blossoming across her blue shirt like so many flowers. He remembers the awful, suffocating fear.

"Are you okay?"

Helen's voice jerks him back to the present, and he looks at her, realizing that he's started to breathe a bit raggedly. Embarrassed, he tries to control his rapid breaths and answers, "Yeah, I'm fine."

She shakes her head slowly. Catching his eyes, she says, "It helps to talk, remember?"

He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to tell anyone—let alone a stranger—just how guilty he feels about forcing Bones to go with him to Harrison Memorial. If only he hadn't, if only he'd let her finish her stupid reports and get to the Egyptology Department…

"You can talk to me," Helen says encouragingly, and surprisingly, he feels reassured. Her eyes are warm and understanding, reminding him briefly of his grandfather.

He finds himself talking all of a sudden, without conscious decision.

"It's my fault," he says heavily, looking away. "It's my fault she got shot. She didn't want to go with me to Harrison Memorial, but I forced her. Not because I needed her expertise or anything but because I just wanted her company, you know? I thought maybe afterward, we could drop by the diner—this place we usually go to—for some pie and dinner."

"You knew there would be shooters at Harrison Memorial then?" she asks.

He starts. "No, of course not! And how do you know about that anyway?"

She smiles. "It was all over the evening news, Booth. _And_ your partner's been shot. Not that big a mystery."

He feels stupid. The exhaustion must really be weighing on his mind. Sheepishly, he says, "Oh."

"Anyway," she continues, "I don't see how it's your fault. Unless you pulled the trigger yourself or you deliberately put her in danger, how is it your fault?"

He shakes his head in quiet frustration. "It's still my fault because I _did_ put her in danger, intentional or not, and then I failed to protect her. She's just a consultant_. I'm_ the FBI agent.I'm supposed to protect her, and I didn't. I failed."

Helen stops. "Are you saying you held back? Maybe you left her when she needed you?"

He stares at her, aghast. "God, no!" How can she even _think_ that?

She looks at his expression and nods seriously. "Then you just felt lazy today? You just felt like your partner only deserved fifty percent of your effort? You thought she wasn't worth that much work over?"

Now he's starting to get a little angry. What the _hell _is she getting at? Tightly, he snaps, "Of course not! Bones deserves everything I am! I did my best for her today, my very best. I did everything I could. Don't even _think_ that I didn't."

He glares at her, daring her to challenge his honor and duty, daring her to put him down just one more time, but there's nothing but kindness in her eyes. In fact, she smiles gently, which throws him completely off.

"You see?" she says. "You did your best. You did your _best_ for her today. How can you expect to do any better? So this isn't really your fault at all. You did everything you could. In fact, from what I heard on the news and from what I heard from the other nurses, you saved her life today. You were the one who pulled her out of that building, weren't you?"

"Yeah…" he says slowly, the anger starting to melt away. Little by little, he turns over what she's said in his mind and finds that it's perfectly logical. Perfectly rational. Something Bones would appreciate, and probably something Bones would say herself. So maybe…he isn't at such great fault in this after all? Maybe he hasn't got any reason to beat himself up about something he had no control over? After all, he's only a man. He has his limits, as much as he hates to admit it.

Helen smiles at him, and he knows she can see the gears turning in his head. "See?" she says. "Once you step back and think about it a little, you usually get different perspectives on things."

She's right. She's completely right. At the realization, a huge weight he wasn't even aware of carrying lifts off his shoulders. He feels a thousand times lighter. He _isn't_ the reason Bones is lying here in a hospital bed, but at the same time, he _is._ It isn't his fault she's been shot, but it's because of him she got out of that building at all.

He gives Helen a smile more genuine than any he's had since Bones has been shot. "Thank you," he says simply, almost overwhelmed with feeling. She'll never know how much of a gift their little walk in the darkness has been, he thinks. But there's something about her eyes that convinces him that she does. She knows what she's given him.

"Come on," she says with a smile. "I'll take you back to your partner."

They make their slow way back to Bones's bedside, where Booth says goodnight to Helen and thanks her again. She waves and wishes Bones well before disappearing back out to check on the other patients in the wing. Booth slips into his seat by Bones's side and picks up her hand again.

"Hey, Bones," he says softly, rubbing circles into her hand with his thumb. "It's Booth."

He wants to say a lot of things. Like how relieved he is that she's okay and how proud he is that she's proven to be such a fighter. He wants to tell her that he'll get the bastards that did this and that they'll be brought to justice if he has to drag them to jail himself. He wants to tell her about Helen and about what they talked about. In the end, though, he realizes that he's too tired to say much at all. He's just exhausted from the day he's had and all the emotional stress that followed it. He's probably so emotionally worn out that he won't be able to feel for the next month.

With a sigh, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her lips, wishing she could respond. "I love you," he whispers against her mouth before sitting back in the chair. After a moment, he can't help but yawn. His eyelids drift closed once or twice, and he tries to settle comfortably in the chair. It soon proves impossible, so he eventually just leans forward, his head at Bones's side, his arms acting as a pillow. He knows his back will probably kill him when he wakes up, but he can't exactly bring himself to care at the moment.

He closes his eyes and passes out almost instantly.

When he dreams, late in the night, he dreams of blue eyes, a beautiful smile, and the gorgeous woman who can break his heart or make him soar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for all the reviews. I've loved writing this story more than you know, and I've loved reading the feedback more than you know. Yes, this is the last chapter. Thank you so much for the support; your reviews are half of what made this so much fun. **

**Hope you guys are satisfied with this. I tried writing the ending so many times, but this is the one that stuck. Don't worry about it ending though; I'm almost a hundred percent sure this won't be my last foray into _Bones. _Look forward to more :) **

**Disclaimer: Fill in your own creative disclaimer here. **

* * *

It hurts. Her ribs are on fire. Or someone's driven a red-hot poker through her side and left it there. Still under the haze of sleep, she tries to push the pain away like a bad dream, but it refuses to fade. No matter how hard she tries to compartmentalize the hurt away like she usually does, no matter how much she wants to roll over in her bed and sleep the morning away, she can't.

Gradually, her more logical nature begins to wake up. She realizes that there isn't a reason for her to be hurting at all, that if she _is_ in pain, there's something wrong. And by the magnitude of the pain, it's something serious. Her mind is immediately alert, and, first things first, she opens her eyes.

An unfamiliar ceiling. Darkness. It's hard to breathe.

She beats back the panic, the one that always swamps her when she's confronted with darkness and tight quarters. It's been a long time since the Gravedigger, but it haunts her all the same. She's ashamed of the weakness, but she can't conquer it, even with all her logic and mental fortitude. She's never been able to truly stifle the fear, and for years afterward, it was difficult to handle it. But these days, she just lets Booth hold her, lets his warm, strong arms remind her that she's safe and that while he's there, nothing can hurt her. She's invincible in his embrace.

But he's not here. She corrals the panic and tries to sit up, wondering where she is. Not her home and not Booth's either. She doesn't remember going anywhere. In fact, she doesn't remember much at all. When she tries to rise, stabbing pain shoots through her torso, pain so bad she can't stifle a cry. Tears of pain springing to her eyes, she slumps back into the pillow, wondering wildly how she's gotten hurt.

When the pain's faded enough for her to breathe more easily, she carefully moves her arms and determines that none of her limbs have been affected by whatever's hurting her torso. It must be an isolated injury then, located somewhere on her left side approximately between the fifth and seventh ribs. She clings to these logical facts to ground her, to keep the growing alarm from overwhelming her. She's hurt and in a foreign place, but if she concentrates, maybe something will start to make sense.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes briefly. That's when she hears the quiet beeps. Rapid and slightly erratic, they sound perfectly in time with…with…

With her heartbeat, she realizes abruptly. She can hear the fear in her heartbeat reflected in those beeps. She searches for a connecting answer and finds it—a heartbeat monitor. Which means she's in a hospital of some sort, a medical facility at the very least. Which also means that she isn't in any immediate danger.

The thought reassures her enough to open her eyes again and begin a perfunctory scrutiny of her surroundings. Keeping herself still to avoid jarring whatever wound she's sustained, she cranes her neck around to find a curtained off area. Medical equipment are neatly hooked up beside her bed, and she can feel an IV running in her arm along with an oxygen tube snaking under her nose. The heartbeat monitor shows her pulse gradually calming as she realizes she's not in danger at all. She's in a hospital, which means she's safe.

She wants to find a nurse to figure out what happened to her. Was she attacked? Did someone attack the Jeffersonian? Is anyone else hurt? Or was it just an accident? Had she fallen, perhaps? And how badly is she hurt?

She turns her head to the right, intending to search for a call button, but the words die in her throat as soon as she spots the chair next to her bed—more specifically, the man _occupying_ the chair next to her bed.

Booth.

The instant she sees him, reassurance rushes through her. If she'd had any lingering doubts about her safety, they vanish like smoke in the wind. She can't help the little sigh of relief that escapes her lips as she studies him from the bed.

He's leaning back in the hospital chair, his arms folded, his head lolling back, his long legs sprawled in front of him. He's wearing a black FBI shirt and a pair of slacks that look suspiciously stained at the knees. He looks about as uncomfortable as a man can possibly get. Brennan can tell just by looking at him how many aches he's going to have when he wakes up. He'd have had better rest by just sleeping on the floor.

And then she realizes that the reason he's sleeping in a chair at all is because of her. Because she's lying here in a hospital bed, and Booth, more loyal than any man she's ever known, would never leave her in the hospital alone. A pang of guilt shoots through her, though rationally, she knows that as she was unconscious, there was nothing she could have done to stop him. It doesn't stop her from feeling at fault for the pain he'll be in when he wakes up.

The pain's starting to bother her again. With a quiet whimper, she lifts the covers she's tucked under and tries to find the wound. Reaching a hand under the hospital gown she's wearing, she finds the swath of bandages on her left side on her ribs. It's a small square of bandage held there by surgical tape, by the feel of it. A cut then? Perhaps she's been stabbed? She can't remember, and it alarms her. Has her memory been affected? Is she experiencing post-trauma amnesia? What if…what if she's lost time?

The thought sends a shudder through her, and the heartbeat monitor spikes again. She takes a breath and tries to think rationally. All right…all right…_think,_ Temperance, _think…_

Booth. As always, when she's searching for calm and support, her mind flies to him. All right, she still remembers him, which means she can't have lost too much time. She thinks back quickly and knows it's a Friday. The last thing she remembers clearly is sorting through the growing stack of files on her desk at the Jeffersonian and making a mental note to visit the Egyptology Department as soon as possible. The rest of her memory is hazy.

It can't be too bad, she rationalizes. She hasn't had any head trauma that she can feel, and she doesn't think the wound she sustained damaged any major organs. The tubes running around her body seem routine, not excessive, which means she's not hooked up to any machines beyond those that are for every hospital patient, like IV and the heartbeat monitor. She should be fine. If she waits, the memory of whatever happened will most likely return. Most likely.

She grits her teeth against the rising tide of pain and closes her eyes. The morphine or whatever they gave her to counter the pain must be wearing off, and quickly too. Her side feels like it's on fire, and she's frustratingly weak. As she tries to rise, the room spins sickeningly, and she throws out her hands to catch herself on the bed's rails. Gripping the rails tightly for a long, painful moment, she tries to catch her breath and fight against the agony in her side. It isn't bad, she tells herself firmly. She's had worse. It doesn't stop the quiet cry that breaks from her lips as she tries to reach for the call button situated a little ways above the bed.

"Bones!"

She looks up sharply to find Booth starting out of the chair, his expression twisted in worry. Even that small movement with her head causes her vision to spin wildly out of control, and she grimaces as a pang shoots through her. With that all-too-familiar look of concern, Booth reaches for her quickly, only to freeze with a quiet groan that he tries unsuccessfully to stifle.

"Your back," she says, immediately concerned. Then, when he doesn't say anything, she adds, "Booth?"

"It's nothing," he answers quickly, but even she can hear the pain he tries to hide. His hand goes to the small of his back, and he grimaces for a second before trying to smooth out his expression.

She eyes him and swiftly identifies the strain on his lower back and also the way he's favoring his left leg. He catches her eyes on his leg and shrugs sheepishly. "It's asleep."

"You mean the nerves in your foot have been compressed and are temporarily nonresponsive?" she says.

He looks at her for a long moment, but instead of his usual incomprehension or annoyance, his face breaks out into the widest smile of relief she's ever seen. She stares at him in confusion, wondering what he's so relieved about.

He laughs at her expression. "I'm just happy that you're okay, Bones," he explains, relief still obvious in his voice. "You had me so scared there. I thought…" He swallows, a thousand emotions running rampant across his face before he forces a smile again. "But it's okay. _You're_ okay. You're even spouting all this scientific mumbo-jumbo. It means you're okay."

She starts to shake her head at his logic but freezes when pain wrenches through her side again. Her hand flies involuntarily to her ribs, and Booth zeroes in on it instantly.

"You're in pain," he says, his smile disappearing. "Does it hurt a lot? Should I call the nurse? I'm sure they can get something for the pain." He starts toward the call button, but she reaches out and manages to catch his sleeve.

"I'm fine, Booth."

Irritation flashes briefly through his eyes. "You don't fool me, Bones."

"I'm not _fine,"_ she sighs, "but I can handle it."

"I don't _want_ you to handle it," he argues, his brow creasing. "I want you to be comfortable."

"Please, Booth," she says tiredly. "If they give me morphine, my thought process will be affected. I want to keep a clear head."

"For what?" he demands in exasperation.

She hesitates briefly before saying, "Can we talk, Booth? I don't…" She sighs. "What happened?"

He looks shocked for a moment. Then understanding crosses his face, and he lowers himself slowly back into the chair. Pulling it nearer to her bed, he takes her hand and asks lowly, "You don't remember?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sure it's some form of post-trauma amnesia. It's temporary, usually. If you would just give me a few details, I'll most likely remember everything."

He hesitates, and she can see that he's unwilling to talk about it. It's then that she realizes how deeply her injury and subsequent stay at the hospital have affected him. If it had been an accident or something minor, he wouldn't hesitate to tell her. But he _does_ pause, and that alone tells her everything. She's grown adept—or as adept as she can be—at reading silences, and she can read his reluctance in this one.

"It's bad?" she guesses, watching his expression, trying to glean something out of it.

He sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his face. Watching him, she feels the stirrings of impatience and says, "If you're worried that I might be traumatized, don't be. I'm fine. Tell me what happened."

"It isn't you who's traumatized," he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Ah. Of course. "You feel guilty," she states matter-of-factly. What an utterly Booth reaction.

He jerks his head up in obvious surprise, which, really, is all the confirmation she needs. "What? What makes you think that, Bones?"

"You always feel an irrational amount of guilt when I get hurt," she replies. "You're unusually protective of me, and that causes you to feel responsible for my well-being, even though I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Unusually protective?" he snorts, staring at his shoes. "I'm not protective _enough._" He sighs heavily again and swallows. "God, Bones, I was…so close. Too close."

When he lapses into silence, she prompts impatiently, "Close to what?"

He hesitates, his grip on her hand almost tight. Then, he takes a shaky breath, not looking at her. "To losing you," he whispers.

She can't see his eyes, but she can somehow hear the tears in his voice. It shocks her, seeing Booth like this. She can count on one hand—half a hand, even—how many times she's seen him even get teary-eyed in front of her. Booth is a strong alpha male, which means he fights to hide his weak moments. The fact that he's allowing her to see him like this drives home the point of how shaken he truly is. How _scared._ And it scares her too.

"What happened, Booth?" she asks softly, reaching out toward him.

He grasps her hand tightly, still not looking at her. For a moment, he draws circles on her hand with his thumb, something he likes to do whenever he holds her hand. It calms her, always, and it does so now. She feels slightly less lost, less confused. Though she wants answers, of course, she silently lets him draw his circles, round and round, round and round…

"You were shot," he says abruptly, bluntly, his voice slightly rushed. "Do you remember going to the hospital? We went to Harrison Memorial because Leonard Teel had information for us, information on the case. You went into the room to talk to him, and I went with his doctor. The doctor took me to his office to show me some files, and—and then there were gunmen. They'd come for Leonard, and they shot you. They _shot_ you." He's stopped tracing circles. She can feel his hands trembling almost imperceptibly over hers. "There was…so much blood. So much. You were just lying there on the ground, and it didn't look like you were breathing. I was so scared, so damn _scared._ I thought they'd killed you. God, I thought they'd _killed_ you."

She listens in half-stunned silence. It isn't the fact that she's been shot that stuns her; it's his emotion. Booth is an emotional man, yes, and he lives in a world shaped by the heart, but she has almost never seen him so openly candid about his terror, his concern for her. He always seems so strong in her mind, so solid and world-wise in ways she can never be. It hurts, almost physically, to see him so broken. She can't say anything to comfort him because she doesn't know how. Instead, she just squeezes his hand.

He takes a shaky breath. "I dragged you the hell out of there. It was…hard. You weren't really conscious some of the time, and the shooters were looking for you, and…"

He swallows, and Brennan says softly, "It's okay, Booth. You don't have to—"

"No," he says roughly. "You should know—"

"I remember," she tells him quickly, because she does. She remembers Leonard's thin, sallow face, remembers talking with him, remembers turning at the sound of heavy footsteps. She remembers the sound the bullet made, tearing through her. She remembers and shudders.

A look of immense relief crosses his face. "You do? All of it?"

"All of it," she confirms. She remembers the ride to the hospital and…and…

She looks at him in sudden confusion. "You weren't in the ambulance. You weren't at the hospital either."

"Huh? I'm here now, Bones."

She shakes her head. "That isn't what I mean. You weren't there when they wheeled me into surgery."

It's more of a question than a statement. She wants him to tell her that he _was_ there. She wants him to tell her that he held her hand all the way up to the surgery room, that he whispered reassurances in her ear, and that she just doesn't remember it. But the look that crosses his face answers that question.

"I'm so sorry, Bones," he says, sounding guilty. "I wanted to follow you, but Cullen held me back. I had to make sure the hostages got out okay."

The hostages. Of course. He's an FBI agent, not her personal bodyguard. He has a job to do outside of caring for her. As a federal agent, he operates in a world she isn't a part of, and it takes priority over her. There was nothing he could do in the ambulance anyway, except get in the way. It was better for everyone for him to stay behind at the scene and do his best to wrap up the case there. Yes, that's the logical answer. Rationally, he did the right thing. Irrationally, she still feels hurt. Maybe even betrayed.

"Good," she says, forcing a smile. "That's your job. You had an obligation to stay."

He sees right through her, like he always does. "No, I should've gone with you, Bones."

"Saving the hostages was more important than riding in the ambulance with me," she reasons. "You had the skills necessary to rescue the hostages, and you would just have been in the way in the ambulance."

"That doesn't change anything," he says stubbornly, meeting her eyes. "You needed me and I wasn't there for you."

"I didn't need you," she says, a bit stiffly. He makes it sound like she's dependent on him. She isn't. She's her own person, of course. She doesn't need anyone.

He senses the change in her immediately. "I'm losing you, Bones. Talk to me."

"You're not losing anything," she says automatically. "And we _are_ talking."

"No, we aren't," he argues, catching and holding her gaze. "We're not talking about what you want to talk about. Remember when we started this relationship, Bones? No secrets. We promised."

"This isn't a secret," she protests. "Nothing is."

"Then tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"The truth. You're mad that I wasn't with you in the ambulance, aren't you?"

She opens her mouth to deny it automatically, but Booth's gaze stops the words on her lips. His warm eyes, always so open, always so real. Only rarely can she read the emotion in them, but they're always so…honest. She knows he deserves at least some honesty in return.

"I'm not mad, really," she says slowly, averting her eyes. "I just feel irrationally slighted because you chose not to pursue the ambulance. Which is completely illogical, of course, seeing that Cullen ordered you to stay, thus invalidating your ability to choose at all."

"You're hurt," he says simply, guiltily.

"You were under orders," she points out in return.

"Screw orders," he answers, his voice slightly annoyed. "I should've gone with you. You wanted me there, so I should've been there."

"You could have lost your job if you disobeyed Cullen," Brennan protests, confused by his logic. "You can't throw away your career for a simple trip to the hospital."

"A job should never be more important than people you love," Booth says, a bit roughly. "And I'd throw away anything for you, Bones. You know that."

She swallows hard. It's things like that, those sweet things he says, sometimes unintentionally, that catch her off guard. When he says things like that, she feels important. Special. Loved. Like no man has ever made her feel before. It's dangerous, that feeling, but Booth makes it so she can't ever get enough of it.

And she realizes she's not hurt anymore. Just the sight of him beating himself up—figuratively speaking—about it melts away all the betrayal she feels, leaving behind nothing but a wave of affection. She squeezes his hand again and smiles genuinely at him. As expected, he stares at her in surprise, but she doesn't say anything, just smiles at him.

After a moment, he says impatiently, "You know, Bones, sometimes you give me whiplash with your mood swings. Want to tell me what you're smiling about?"

"I'm smiling because I'm happy," she replies.

He rolls his eyes. "I could never have figured that one out."

"I'm sure you could have," she says innocently, choosing deliberately to ignore his sarcasm. Even before their relationship, she's always enjoyed teasing him like this, getting him exasperated. Sure, most of the time she truly doesn't understand half the things he talks about, but occasionally, she chooses to look oblivious just to irritate him. It's surprisingly fun.

He rolls his eyes again. "You did that on purpose."

"What?"

He sighs, but a small smile appears on his lips. "I'm glad you're not mad at me at least." He looks at her searchingly. "Right?"

She smiles again to reassure him. "No, I'm not mad."

A crease of confusion appears between his eyes. "Not that I'm not relieved or anything," he says slowly, "but _why?_ I mean, just a second ago, you were making me feel guilty as hell."

"_Because _you feel guilty," she says, unsure of how to explain it. "Because you…you…_care_ enough to feel guilty."

"Oh, Bones." He smiles warmly in sudden understanding, that smile that automatically makes her want to kiss him. She resists the urge, and he starts drawing circles on her hand again. After a moment, he looks straight at her and says, voice full of emotion, "You know I love you, right?"

She smiles. "Yes, Booth. You've said it too many times for me to forget."

"I'll say it forever," he says, almost like a promise. And he looks at her with such…_love_ in his eyes that it makes her tingle. As many times as she's told herself and him that love is a result of chemical reactions in the body responding to external stimuli, she's almost certain that she's wrong this time. She's seen it. She sees it in Booth's eyes all the time, and it makes her warm, so warm. So special. Every time he says "I love you," no matter how many times he says it, it'll always send an incomprehensible thrill through her. She doesn't tell him this, of course. But, more and more often these days, she finds herself trying to say those words back to him, daring herself to give him what he wants. She can see it in his eyes every time he says "I love you" to her, the desire for some reciprocation. It doesn't matter how many times she tells him how much she likes him or how many times she calls him her boyfriend; it's those three little words he wants to hear most.

She wants to say them. She wants so badly to see his eyes brighten and his entire face light up when he hears her. But she's tried before, and the words just seem to stick to the back of her throat. It frustrates her to no end, that she's such a coward. She's afraid, of course; that's the root of the problem. She's afraid that "I love you" is a promise, that it's a pledge of permanency. She wants to stay with Booth, of course, always. She's known that for some time now. But what if he doesn't want to stay with her? What if he tires of her, or he realizes that his love was ephemeral?

Ridiculous. Obviously ridiculous. Booth has told her a hundred thousand times that he won't ever leave her, not for anything. But there's that part of her, the one that's been betrayed again and again, that expects Booth to leave like all the others. And she doesn't want her "I love you" to weigh him down, to make him stay with her out of pity or a sense of obligation. She doesn't want to chain a man who's so free.

"Bones?"

She blinks and realizes that she's been absorbed in her thoughts and looking through him. He leans forward anxiously and asks, "You okay? You looked a little dazed there. Maybe I should call the doctor."

Brennan doesn't let go of his hand. "I'm fine, Booth. Really." At his skeptical look, she admits, "My side hurts, but it isn't unbearable."

He groans. "Unbearable? I don't care if you can handle it. If you're in pain, I want it to stop." He rises and presses the call button by the heartbeat monitor before she can protest. A moment later, a nurse appears at her bedside.

"Is something wrong?" the nurse asks.

"Could you give her something for the pain?" Booth says. "She woke up about half an hour ago."

The nurse picks up the clipboard at the base of the bed, scans the information, and gives him a look. "You should have called as soon as she woke up. The doctor wants an update on her status."

Her tone is sharp and disapproving, and Brennan bristles automatically. "It isn't his fault," she says. "I asked him not to call anyone."

The nurse turns the look on her. "You should have called immediately, Ms. Brennan. You're in critical—"

"Doctor," Brennan interrupts quickly. At the nurse's blank stare, she says, "Doctor Brennan, not miss."

An annoyed look crosses the nurse's face, like she's irritated at being taken lightly while lecturing, but before she can start up again, Booth says impatiently, "Look, sorry for not calling you earlier, but could you just give her something for the pain?"

"People these days," the nurse mutters as she moves to adjust something with Brennan's IV. "Not a care in the world about doctor's orders, just want quick results…"

Behind her, Booth rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything. Brennan watches the IV line for a long painful moment. Then, abruptly, she can feel the throbbing lessening in her side. She sighs in relief and slumps down slightly into the pillow, relaxing as a wonderful numbness begins to spread through her body.

"Thank you," Booth says to the nurse. She looks momentarily surprised at the sincerity in his voice and mutters a quick order to call her if anything changes before disappearing. After a moment, Booth reaches forward to grab her hand again. A tell-tale wince flashes across his face, and Brennan frowns.

"Your back," she says. "You shouldn't have slept in the chair."

"This isn't exactly a hotel, Bones," Booth answers through a grimace. He braces a hand on the guardrail of the bed and hunches his shoulders.

"I mean you shouldn't have stayed," Brennan says, though she knows her words will have no effect on him. "You should have just gone home."

"And leave you here to wake up alone?" he replies, like the idea has never occurred to him. And it probably hasn't.

She smiles because really, she's happy he didn't leave. "Thank you for staying."

He shrugs and smiles slowly, teasingly. "I know you'll make it up to me," he says lowly, eyes glinting in amusement.

She pauses in consideration. "I think it might be a while before I'm ready to have sex, Booth."

He chokes, nearly falling over, and shoots her an incredulous look, his face flushing an amusing shade of bright red. "_What! _Bones! That's _not_ what I meant!"

She finds it curious that he can talk about "making love" and "becoming one" without batting an eye, but when someone so much as calls it "sex," his eyes grow wide, and he looks almost scandalized.

"What _did_ you mean then?" she asks politely.

"I meant—" He takes a long, steadying breath. "I meant you could fix my back for me. Not—not anything _close_ to…_that._"

She stifles a smile at his discomfort. One of the things she likes so much about Booth is his boyish innocence. Not to imply that he's innocent in any way, but he's so conservative, so reserved about certain subjects that it's endearing.

"So," he coughs after a moment, still a bit red in the face, "maybe you should get some rest. It's been a really long day."

She wants to protest, but she _is_ feeling tired. And weak. With a sigh, she lies down but doesn't pull the covers up or close her eyes.

"What time is it?" she asks.

Booth checks his watch. "Four in the morning. It's too early to be up." To prove his point, he yawns widely, but Brennan can see the true exhaustion underneath. She sees for the first time the dark circles under his eyes and the stress weighing down his shoulders. She sees the way his body practically trembles with fatigue, and she sees how he holds himself up almost through sheer willpower. He's so…worn. She wonders for the first time just how much it took him to get her out of Harrison Memorial, just how much it took him to sit here in the hospital for hours while she was in surgery, waiting in fear for her life.

"Booth," she says softly, emotion suddenly welling up in her. She hesitates, wanting both to ask him for details on Harrison Memorial and to tell him that he needs more rest than she does. In the end, she just says simply, "Thank you. Not for staying, but for everything else. For saving my life."

He smiles wearily. "No problem, Bones. It's my job."

No, it isn't his job. It isn't his job to injure himself trying to sleep in a hospital chair to make sure she's not alone. It's isn't his job to love her. And her thank you is for all the things that aren't his job.

He leans forward suddenly and gives her a long, sweet kiss. It's been an awful, trying day for both of them, and somehow, this is just what she needs: a little human connection, a simple show that someone cares. She clings to him for a moment, almost desperately, abruptly aware of just how close she was to losing it all. She remembers what she thought as they wheeled her into surgery, that she isn't ready to die because she has so much she wants to do. She realizes how easily it all could have been lost. And how, as he has so many times before, Booth has pulled her back from the brink. How he was there for her like he's always promised.

She breaks off the kiss much earlier than she usually would have, and he gives her a surprised look. Usually it's he who has to pull away. When he tries to pull back from her, though, she doesn't let him. Arms around his neck, she looks him straight in the eye and draws together her courage.

"Booth," she says steadily, and for once, the words don't stick to her throat. They flow effortlessly because this time, she knows they're true. She knows, finally, this twisting feeling in her gut, this swell of emotion that makes her irrationally think she can soar.

"Booth," she says again, his name barely a whisper, "I love you."

He freezes against her arms. For a moment, he just looks shocked and slack-jawed. He doesn't believe his ears, she can tell. He doesn't believe that she could have said that, not Temperance Brennan. The thought sends a pang of sadness through her and strengthens her determination.

"I love you," she repeats, stronger this time. She looks in his eyes and hopes he can read the sincerity there.

He gapes at her for another moment before stammering in confusion, "Bones, you don't have to…Just because I said it, you don't have to feel obligated—"

She silences him with a huff. "Booth, I don't feel obligated to say it. You know how I don't like lying. I deal with facts, Booth. The fact here is that I wouldn't say it if I didn't believe it."

"You wouldn't say it if you…" he repeats slowly. And then he trails off as realization hits him, and she can see in his face the exact moment he realizes the truth. That she loves him, and she means it. His eyes widening, his entire face glows suddenly with a joy she's rarely seen in his face before, and his eyes are alight with that feeling she's come to know as love. Beautiful, simple, and warm, it's for her and no one else.

With a quiet, breathless chuckle of near-disbelief, Booth leans forward and captures her lips with his in a fierce but somehow gentle kiss. In an unusually perceptive moment, she feels a thousand emotions in the kiss, and for once, she thinks of his lips on hers in terms of emotions rather than science. She can feel the emotion he's pressing into her with his lips, the happiness, the relief, the love. He's leaning her back, his eyes closed, and she forgets that they're in the hospital. She forgets that it isn't a good idea to engage in any activity that would exacerbate her condition. With a quick pause for breath, she draws him closer, breathing in his warm, familiar scent, tasting the lips that she can't get enough of, basking in the unfamiliar feeling of being loved and loving back.

And then he leans forward too far too fast, his eyes burning with desire, and she can't stifle the cry as he inadvertently presses up against her side. At her yelp, he pushes back instantly, his eyes wide with horror.

"God, Bones, I'm sorry!" He's pulled completely away from her, obviously afraid of hurting her further. "You okay? It doesn't hurt too much? Should I call the nurse?"

She shakes her head quickly, biting her lip. "I'm fine, Booth."

As usual, he isn't convinced. "Don't lie to me, Bones."

"I told you that I don't like lying, remember?" she replied wryly. "I'm fine." She is, really. The pain's already fading into the numbness of morphine.

He sighs resignedly and runs a hand through his hair, the FBI shirt riding up a little as he raises his arm. She realizes it's a little short for him, and she can see just enough of his midriff to catch a glimpse of his muscles underneath. Despite herself, despite the fact that she's run her fingers over those muscles before and felt them flex beneath her, she can't help the way her breath catches in her throat at his sheer attractiveness.

He sighs again and shakes his head. "Well, even if you won't admit you're in pain, you look like hell, Bones. You should get some rest."

"You don't look much better, Booth," she observes. Even in the dim light, she can tell how exhausted he is. She glances at the chair and at how he still winces when moving and suggests, "You should go home."

He pauses, eyes tightening. "Do you _want_ me to leave?"

Does she want him to leave? What kind of question is _that?_ With a sigh, she shakes her head and replies, "Of course not. But it would be detrimental to your back to sit any longer in a chair, and there isn't any other place to sleep."

"Who says I need to sleep?"

"Your clearly exhausted body," she answers wryly, eyeing his slumped shoulders and half-closed eyes. "You shouldn't deny your body its physical needs, Booth; it isn't healthy."

He sighs and rubs a tired hand over his face. "I know. It's just…I don't want to leave you alone, Bones." He looks at her for a long moment before sighing. "You know what? It's fine. I can take the chair."

"I won't let you," she argues, eyes narrowing. "I don't want you hurt because of me."

"It's not because of you," he counters. "It's because all the hospital has is these god-awful chairs." He sits down firmly and can't quite hide the discomfort that instantly crosses his face. "It isn't the Hilton, but I've had worse."

"Booth—"

"Bones, go to sleep or I'll call the nurse over to knock you out."

She tries to protest again, but he leans forward and silences her with a brief, sweet kiss. "Shh, Bones, okay? Just sleep. I'll be okay. Just get some rest."

Despite herself, she can't keep her eyes open anymore, the exhaustion of the day and her own weakness finally taking its toll. She's already drifting off into sleep when she feels Booth press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, "Shh, Bones, I'm here. I'll be here when you wake up." He brushes some hair gently out of her face and adds, "I love you."

And it's filled with a warmth and truth that makes her believe in love after all.

END

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